


Echoes of Light

by ObliObla



Category: Lucifer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Canonical Character Death, Episode Tag, Episode: s02e05 The Weaponizer, Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-18 20:21:36
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,079
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18126029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ObliObla/pseuds/ObliObla
Summary: Lucifer was digging.





	Echoes of Light

**Author's Note:**

> For Lucifer Bingo: Needs must when the Devil drives

Lucifer was digging.

He didn’t know where he was. He didn’t even remember where the shovel had come from. He had driven to the church and then to this patch of land in a fractured and fragmented daze, hands clenched on the steering wheel so hard the metal had bent beneath his fingers. The wood creaked as he struck the ground, lifting away the earth.

And he dug.

The sky held a dead orange glow that threatened rain, but none fell as the pit grew and the shadows deepened under his hands. Six feet they would dig when the hangman’s noose turned human justice to eternal Judgement, six feet for the dead whose living still wept, and a shallower grave for those who died unmourned. There was a hanging tree here, true, but no rope. No justice, no Judgement. Only oblivion.

Only his hands, ceaselessly digging.

The roots of that twisted tree were buried deep and, when the blade shied from them, shuddering as it skittered off into loose soil, he tossed the shovel aside and reached into the hollow, ripping them from the earth. The wind picked up as he removed the body from his truck and turned to consider the grave, but the darkness whispered cruelties in his ears and he tore his eyes away, fixing them instead on the tree, on its creaking branches. He panted in the cooling air as the bundle in his shaking arms seemed to grow heavier and heavier, rooting him where he stood.

“Brother,” he choked out. “Brother, I…” But his words were stolen by the rustling of the leaves and the stillness of this place. Uriel’s vacant gaze stared up at him with a serenity more unmerciful than naked hatred would have been and he closed his eyes, unable to look down at his sins, unwilling to look up toward the stars. That shine he could no longer see shivered against the inside of his eyelids and he took a breath, trying to calm himself, but the tang of blood invaded his nostrils and he cried out, sinking to his knees. He wasn’t… He couldn’t…

He had to.

He snarled, the sound torn from his throat, and gritted his teeth. He rose to his feet, walked back to his car, and searched the cabin, finding only the cloth he used to polish the windshield. Something in his chest clenched but he ignored the pang, wrapping the fabric firmly over those lightless, unblinking eyes and allowing his own to fall open again. His heart thudded against his ribs and he swayed for a moment before willing his legs to move, approaching the pit.

He knelt, dragging the body down and further down still. It was stiff and unyielding and the angle was awkward, but he couldn’t let it drop. Not a foot, not an inch. He wouldn’t let his brother strike the earth with any of gravity’s brutality, so he bent low, reached into the shadows, and laid him to rest there. There were tears on his face when he pulled away and he let them come, willing them to speak all the words he couldn’t utter, to wash away this pain that felt like falling.

After a long moment they abated, but the ache remained.

He retrieved the knife and threw it into the grave in a delirious fog, unable to bear the sight of it. He buried the proof of his failures with as much haste as he could manage and, when he came back to himself, the earth was flattened over and his breaths steamed out like smoke, coiling in the breeze. The shovel handle was bent and twisted beneath his fingers and he dropped it with a shout, staring at his unblemished hands, wishing for cuts, calluses... more indelible evidence of his works than blood and dirt. But there was nothing.

There was always nothing.

 

* * *

 

He ripped off his jacket, his bloodied shirt, blinking at his reflection in the bathroom mirror. His eyes were red and wild, his expression uncontrolled and he turned away from the strangeness of it, the truth of it. He staggered to the shower and yanked at the faucet, the metal creaking beneath his fingers. The showerhead erupted into a cold spray and he dragged his half-clothed body under it. He fell to his knees, pressing his forehead against the tiles.

The water sluiced down, flattening his hair, washing away the grime and he shivered, watching the residue circle the drain. His mind had been racing ever since he’d… but now it was far too still, throbbing with the rapidity of his heartbeat. His hands came up, shaking, and he clasped them automatically, consciousness reaching out, not to rage, not even to accuse, but simply to touch, to _share_ in something…

No.

They wouldn’t understand. They’d _never_ understood. He was alone. He would always be… He forced his hands apart and stared down at them, at the grit under the fingernails, and dove forward, picking up a brush from the shower tray. He scrubbed at them, frantic, but the handle snapped, the blood and dirt still stark against his flesh.

“No, no, no…”

He grabbed a pumice stone, but his grip was too strong and it crumbled to dust that turned to mud. Soap came next and he buried his fingers in the bar, pressing and scraping, the color lost beneath all that lathered whiteness. And when he rinsed them off and found the nailbeds clean and pink, he sagged to the floor, his energy abandoning him, insensate to the spray still beating against his back. After a long moment, he pulled himself to his feet and shut off the water. He stumbled from the shower, stripped off the rest of his clothing, and dried his hair. The mirror mocked him, but he ignored it, reaching for his products, for his mask. He tamed his curls back, applied eyeliner and concealer, and left the bathroom, heading for his closet. Briefs, trousers, shirt, socks, vest, perfectly pressed. Shoes, perfectly polished.

He could feel the pounding beat of Lux in his feet as he stood in front of the elevator. The party never stopped, after all. The party… He shook his head and adjusted his cufflinks, looking down at his sleeves, unable to keep his gaze from sliding over his hands, searching every inch of skin for a sign of stain, of discoloration, but there was no blood on them. Not anymore.

Shouldn’t there be?


End file.
